


Incubus

by lmeden



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-17
Updated: 2012-06-17
Packaged: 2017-11-07 22:23:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 16,772
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/436092
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lmeden/pseuds/lmeden
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Harry is a Muggle (but not really), Ron and Hermione are at a loss, Draco is slightly (okay, a lot) fixated, and the solution is both simpler and costlier than imagined.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Incubus

**Author's Note:**

> All credit for this fic must go to PEARLJAMZ for her lovely and inspiring prompts, HDS_BELTANE for hosting a wonderful fest (as usual), and STARDUCHESS and EUSTACIA_VYE28, my betas, for helping me whip this fic into shape and showing me what I was doing wrong. I'll forever love you all. ♥

_He Floos to Ron and Hermione’s, same as always._

-|-

Harry woke himself trying to scream, the sweat-soaked sheets strangling his legs. His hand clutched reflexively at his chest, just over his heart. It pounded with a painful lurch, throbbing through his hand, and he gasped as he closed his eyes and pushed back at the pain. 

He sat up slowly, swinging his legs over the side of the bed and pulling his hand away from his chest to scrub at his face. Again. It seemed like the nightmare would never leave him. He was beginning to see it when awake. 

“Harry?”

The voice drifted through the doorway. Harry didn’t bother to look over; he lifted his shoulders, wincing at the sharp pain that seared through scar tissue. 

“I’m fine,” he said, voice tight. 

“This can’t keep happening.”

The voice was close, right by the bed, so Harry glanced up, gaze wandering for an instant before focusing on the bulky man a few feet away. 

“I can’t help it, Dudley. What do you want me to do?”

Dudley sighed and settled on the edge of the mattress. 

The pain in Harry’s chest was enough to make his breath catch, but as he rotated his shoulder, focusing on the up and down, the careful movement, it began to ebb. 

“Look…” Harry relented. “I’m sorry, I don’t mean to snap, I just…”

“Don’t apologize,” Dudley said, frowning. “Here.” He handed Harry his glasses. 

As Harry fumbled with them, shoving them crookedly onto his nose, Dudley bit his lips and looked out the window at the flickering lights of the London night. 

“I heard you moaning,” he whispered. 

Harry closed his eyes for a moment and the dream came rushing back: the knife plunging through his skin, the wrenching emptiness that had been left behind once they had pulled it out. 

He snapped open the fingers of his left hand and flexed them. The pain was almost gone, leaving only a lingering soreness. He stood, straightened his shoulders, and glanced down at Dudley. 

In the soft, ever-changing glow from the city outside, Harry saw that there were dark circles under Dudley’s eyes. He realised suddenly that though Dudley hadn’t come into his room every time Harry had a nightmare, he’d heard Harry and been woken. 

“What time is it?” Harry asked, looking over at the clock on the bedside table. The numbers blinked red, reading 3:28. He reached up, stretching his hands gingerly over his head. “What time do you have to be at the gym?”

“Five,” Dudley replied, and his eyes were full of pity. 

Exhaustion dragged at Harry, pulling him back towards the rumpled sheets, but since Dudley was awake as well, he refused to give into the temptation. Harry couldn’t let Dudley know that he preferred the nightmares to reality – that though they filled him with horror, he would give anything to go back to the dreams. 

“I’ll put tea on; no use going back to bed,” he said instead. 

“Right,” Dudley said. He pushed his hair out of his eyes and his thick frame off the bed. Clad only in flannel pajama pants, his muscles (built by years of boxing) were all the more impressive. “I’ll just grab a shirt.” He glanced back at Harry as he walked out. 

Harry looked away and threw the sheets off of him. His cheeks burned. He didn’t need help. 

He went to the kitchen and pulled the kettle off the stove, poured water into it, and placed it back on the burner. He turned the dial and listened - _click, click, click_ \- before the gas burst into flame. He left it and leant forward, looking out the small window over the sink. 

It overlooked an alley, with the street to the right. A single streetlight cast a halo of light down across the sidewalk, illuminating the thick mist in the air and turning it silver and gold. A taxi glided by, obviously speeding, its headlights brightening momentarily, and then it was gone before Harry had a chance to get more than a fleeting impression. 

The water began to boil in the kettle, so he turned back, switching the flame off. Dudley wandered into the room with a sigh and Harry glanced back at him. He was wearing a loose sweatshirt, large even on him. A few holes were worn through around the neck and wrists, and Harry couldn’t help but smile at the flaking _Smeltings_ logo across the chest. 

Dudley smiled back. “Still fits,” he said as he reached up to pull a tin of tea bags down from the cabinet. Two mugs clattered to the counter as well, and Dudley wrenched the top off the tea container, haphazardly tipping bags out. He shoved them back inside and forced the top back on.

“I’m not surprised,” Harry said, and Dudley chuckled. 

Harry took the mug from him. He poured the hot water into both mugs, gritting his teeth against the flush of hot steam across his knuckles. He placed the kettle back onto the stove and took his tea to the table. He leant forward over the mug and took a deep breath – the scent itself went a long way towards waking him up, though his eyelids still dragged with exhaustion. 

Dudley settled in across from him with a sigh. “Planning on doing anything today?” he asked, sniffing at his tea. 

Harry sat back. The ache in his shoulder had faded to numbness. The first few weeks after moving in with Dudley, he’d gone out every day looking for a job; he needed something to do so that he didn’t go spare or depressed sitting in the flat. But it hadn’t gone well; he hardly had any Muggle education, no school records, no references, and he didn’t even know anyone in the Muggle world besides Dudley.

Since he’d given up the search, Dudley had offered to take him to his gym, teach him to box, to fight. Harry had appreciated the thought, but refused. Mostly, now, he walked around the city.

“It’s been a few months, Harry,” Dudley sighed. He grimaced as he sipped at the tea and set it down. “You’ve got to do something.”

“What, then?” Harry’s voice was sharp, accusatory. Dudley hadn’t come up with something that Harry could do well any more than Harry had.

Dudley’s mouth twisted around the ceramic rim of his mug.

Harry sighed. He was being unfair. It wasn’t Dudley’s fault that Harry was completely unsuited for life in the Muggle world. Harry was just going to have to learn to live with it.

He lifted his mug, breathing in the earthy scent of the tea, and took a cautious sip. It was still hot enough he had to swallow quickly rather than burn his tongue. It tasted like bitter reeds. He closed his eyes and drank, letting the soft silence of London at night surround him. 

Dudley’s breathing across the table was measured, calming, and Harry listened to him sip his tea every few moments. He wondered if Dudley was watching him. 

The limp, soggy bag brushed his lips and his empty stomach began to turn with the strength of the brew. 

“I should get dressed,” Dudley said, and Harry jolted, flushing. 

He opened his eyes, watching wide-eyed as Dudley scraped his chair backwards and placed his mug next to the sink with a clink. He waited for his heartbeat to slow with his own mug pressed to his lips. How much time had passed since he’d sunk into his thoughts?

Dudley walked out of the kitchen, leaving Harry to master his surprise in private. He lowered his mug to the table and rubbed a hand over his face, digging the sand out of the corners of his eyes; he flicked it away. 

As Harry rinsed his mug and Dudley’s out in the sink and placed them to dry on a nearby towel, Dudley walked back in and laid his duffel on the table with a thump. 

“Okay, so…” he began, and Harry turned to look, leaning back against the counter. Dudley was sending him some kind of unfathomable look, so Harry smiled at him. 

“I’m all right,” he said.

Dudley grunted in response and shouldered his bag. “We need butter,” he said, “and liverwurst and peanut butter. Take the money out of the jar and feel free to get anything else you need.” He turned to the kitchen door, then paused and looked back. “Maybe ask the shop if they have any job openings, yeah?”

Harry snarled, grabbed the wet sponge, and hurled it. It smacked wetly against the wall and stuck for a moment. Dudley laughed softly as the door to the flat clicked shut behind him. Harry walked over and picked up the sponge, flicking dirt off it. He listened to Dudley’s heavy steps on the stairs dwindle and fade. 

-|-

Draco woke with a scream frozen in his throat. He coughed and choked as he tried to breathe normally, rolling onto his side. He reached for his wand and Conjured himself a glass of water.

-|-

_Except this isn’t a normal morning, and Harry doesn’t know it yet. He stumbles out of the Floo and brushes soot from his robes. Ron reaches over to brush a chunk of ash from his shoulder and it explodes into dust in the air._

_Harry eyes it and steps away._

_“She’ll be just another minute,” Ron says, and Harry shrugs._

_“No rush.”_

_Ron laughs. “Right?”_

-|-

In Hoxton, two right turns off Shoreditch High Street and an easy walk from the White Cube, was a small building of flats. The top floor had been converted into studios with glass, greenhouse-style ceilings that let in meters of bright light on a sunny day, and there was not a single wall underneath to block the flow. The lower floors were filled with smaller flats – one and two bedrooms, one bathroom – with a few small windows and gray walls. 

Dudley had won a few boxing matches, enough to allow him to rent a two bedroom, but not enough to let him live in one of the studios (not that he would have been interested anyway). He enjoyed the relative privacy of his flat on the third floor – the wall was solid enough that he couldn’t hear the neighbors except when they were screaming and throwing things at each other, and he had few enough neighbors that he could recall each one by name. 

He had thought that the second bedroom would go to a flatmate, but since Piers and everyone else either went off to uni or failed to earn any money whatsoever, that hadn’t panned out. Dudley had even thought that the room might go to a girlfriend, but that hadn’t turned out either. On last resort, he had been going to install a few mats and bags, make it his own personal gym for practice. 

He certainly hadn’t expected his long-lost (so he’d thought) cousin to arrive one day, trailing magical friends and looking very ill indeed, and ask for a place to stay. In his surprise, he said yes, and though he ended up getting very little sleep after Harry moved in, he didn’t regret his decision. 

Besides, when he grew too frustrated and fed up, he simply went out to the gym to work off some steam, then slept it off at a mate’s place before heading home.

-|- 

_Hermione walks out of the kitchen a moment later, one hand tucking her hair behind her ear and the other carrying a small bag. She huffs a sigh as she reaches them._

_“Have you eaten?” Ron asks._

_Hermione rolls her eyes. “Not everyone is as obsessed by the idea of food as you,” she says, and reaches for a handful of Floo powder._

_“Obsessed?” Ron sounds appalled and Harry smothers a smile. “Breakfast is the most important meal of the day, essential to…well, everything, and…”_

_“The Ministry of Magic!” Hermione calls, and she’s gone in a rush of green flame._

_Ron sputters, snatches some powder, and follows her with a whoosh. Harry’s smile bursts onto his face as he laughs._

-|-

His breath misting in front of him, Harry stepped out the front door and it clicked shut behind him. He stared out at the pavement across the street. It was a truly wretched morning. The city, swamped in fog, turned as dull and blurry as if Harry had forgotten his glasses. A few feet away, a lone streetlight cast a cone of light onto the sidewalk. 

He pulled his jacket close around him and turned left. It was still early enough that the sky was mostly black, but the Tesco might be open. 

The windows of the Tesco were glowing and warm when Harry reached it, and as he pulled the door open, tiny bells chimed. He glared at them briefly. 

He was leaning over the refrigerated case, examining the rows of stacked butter boxes through softly fogged glass when the bell chimed again. He opened the case and selected a box, holding it at the end so that his fingertips didn’t freeze. He turned to look at the peanut butter shelved - oddly and appropriately enough - behind him. He fingered the 20£ note in his back pocket and considered the prices. 

“I tried the flat,” Hermione said from behind him, and Harry jerked, breath catching and fingers clenching around a glass jar. “And then I thought you had to be nearby, so I tried _Point Me_. Here you are.”

Harry could hear the smile in her voice. _Of course I was nearby_ , he didn’t say. _Where else can I go?_ He turned just far enough to catch a glimpse of her thick hair (frizzier than usual) and the turned-up collar of her trench. “Is it Monday already?” he asked. 

She stepped up next to him and took the peanut butter from his strained grasp, placing it back on the shelf. “Yes, it’s Monday,” she replied. “Come on. Let’s get something to eat before I have to head in.” 

Her smile was full of straight, clean teeth and her elbow was pushed out towards him, bent and waiting for his own arm to hook through it. Harry forced a smile and threaded his arm through hers, lifting the butter with his other hand. 

“Need to pick this up.”

“All right,” she said, and they headed to the counter. 

It took Harry a long, fumbling moment to pay, and it would’ve been much easier if he’d been able to use both hands to collect the change and slip the butter into a plastic bag, but Hermione didn’t let go of him. She stuck close, smiling at the cashier and leaning against Harry like they were lovers. 

This close to each other, Harry could feel the soft burn of magic underneath her skin. 

The bell chimed again as they walked back into the mist. Hermione led him towards the crossroads of Kingsland and Hackney, and the traffic began to pick up. The mist began flickering silver and gold as the headlights whirred past, and they had to be very careful crossing the street. Harry caught a glimpse of the tip of Hermione’s wand poking out of the end of her sleeve and turned his gaze away from it. 

“Here,” she said a moment later and led them inside. It was a small room filled with small tables, a counter and small refrigerated case at the far end. A lone man sat at one, hunched over a steaming cup of something, with a novel pressed flat in front of him. Harry walked halfway through the room before choosing a table. Hermione kept moving towards the counter as he sat. 

“I’ll just get us something,” she said and turned, the bottom of her coat swirling out around her. 

Harry lifted the bag with the butter in it and let it clunk down on the table. He leant forward and pressed his face into his hands, reaching around the rims of his glasses and rubbing at his eyes. 

Hermione brought back some tea a moment later and set it in front of him, cradling her own cup as if her hands were frozen. She slid the slim strap of her bag off her shoulder and set it on the table next to his butter. Harry stared down into the steaming drink – after the morning he’d already had, he didn’t feel like tea. He took a sip anyway. Hermione glanced around before reaching into the bag and pulling out a small vial. She slid it across the table towards him. 

Harry looked into the swirling depths of the potion, then up at Hermione. She pushed it further, almost right up against his cup, and smiled at him. “I spoke with Dudley,” she said.

“Today?” Harry was shocked. It was still – he glanced at the clock over the counter – only half past six. 

“No, no, last week. He told me that your nightmares haven’t gotten any better, so I thought… It’s Dreamless Sleep.”

Harry reached out and lifted the vial. It was light, and the Dreamless churned blue and black under the crystal-cut container. What would it feel like to drink it? How would it feel to have the potion within him, now that -

He cut the thought off.

He set the vial down with a clink and shoved it back towards Hermione. “No. I can’t. I’m…I’m sorry.”

“What?” She hardly had time to get the word out before Harry was pushing back from the table and turning away, walking back toward the mist-filled streets. 

“I appreciate this, Hermione, really,” he said, throwing the words back at her. “But I can’t do this anymore.”

“Do what?” she snapped, right behind him. 

Harry whirled, hand on the door handle. He’d forgotten how quick she could move.

“Well?” she probed, eyes narrowed. “What is it that you can’t _do anymore_? Have a visit with your best friends? _Talk_ to people?” 

“No!” Harry loved her and Ron, honestly he did. It was just…

Harry stared at her, wide-eyed. She was flushed and desperate, and Harry couldn’t bear to look at her. Every time she or Ron came to visit, he felt their magic - they were filled with it, overflowing to the brim. He felt it brush against his skin when they touched him, teasing at the edge of his thoughts as they spoke…and it was driving him mad. It was too wonderful, too intoxicating, and it overwhelmed him. 

He shoved backwards, opening the door and stumbling onto the street.

Her steps were hard as she followed. 

“I can feel it, you know,” he blurted. He couldn’t keep it a secret anymore. 

She stopped. “Feel what?”

“Magic,” he whispered and hoped desperately that the word was swallowed by the fog. 

Hermione softened; her lips parted and she moved forward, gaze alight. “What do you mean, Harry? Are you feeling magic around you? This could mean that it’s coming back, and -”

Harry faltered. “Fuck!” He couldn’t hear this, couldn’t listen. “Stop saying that!” His voice echoed dully down the street and he swallowed. 

Hermione went still, drawing back from him. Harry turned away, feeling terrible. He hated that he’d hurt her, but her very presence here hurt him. They burned, so strong and bright, when he looked at them. 

Eventually, he forced out words. “Do you have time to come back to the flat?” He glanced back tentatively. 

Silently, she nodded, and they walked back up to the flat with a meter of space between them. 

As Harry closed the flat door behind them and turned the lock, Hermione looked at him, eyes shadowed, and said, “Preston’s trial begins next Tuesday.”

The clunk of the tumblers falling into place was heavy in the silence. “Do they need me?”

Hermione shook her head. “You would have received a summons, if they needed you. As it is, there were dozens of wi- people who saw what happened and they all seem eager to testify. And in light of what happened to you, well…”

“What?”

“I think they want to give you some privacy, time to heal.”

A harsh laugh burst from Harry; he couldn’t help it. “Privacy? From the Ministry? That’s rich.”

Hermione smiled at him, and for the first time in months, Harry felt a glimmer of their old friendship returning. “It is, isn’t it? I think it’s good, though, that they’re not forcing you to come in and testify. You can come if you want, but now it’s up to you. That’s good.”

“Yeah,” Harry murmured, smile fading. 

“What you said earlier…” Hermione began, trailing off.

He didn’t blame her for hesitating; he’d erupted so violently just moments before. “That I can feel magic now.”

Obviously restraining herself, Hermione asked, “How?”

“When I touch you,” he said, “it’s kind of like a buzz under your skin. I’ve felt it with you and Ron, and the Healers at the beginning, but not Dudley or any of the Mug- people I’ve met lately. It has to be magic.”

“The Healers at St. Mungo’s?” Her voice was high with surprise. “That was ages ago. Why didn’t you mention anything?”

“I almost did, but…” Harry shrugged and settled into a chair. “After all those tests and trials, everyday them telling me I’d failed…” He paused and bit his lip. “I just couldn’t say it.” The constant buzz of magic whenever he was around a witch or wizard was torture. He wanted it back inside him, wrapped around him like a blanket, part of him. 

_Would the Dreamless give him that sensation back, if only for a time?_

“That’s why you have to stop coming,” he said, looking away from her.

She doesn’t respond for a long time, but Harry could feel her gaze on his face. 

“Alright,” she finally said, and there was a soft clink. Harry turned to look and spied the vial sitting on the kitchen table. Hermione had her hand on the doorknob. “I’ll leave for now,” she said. “And I’ll tell Ron to give you some space. But I’ll be looking into this, Harry, and I’ll be back.”

She smiled softly at him, and Harry smiled back, unable to help himself. He knew she’d always be there; Ron, too.

As the door shut quietly behind her, Harry walked to the kitchen table and picked up the Dreamless. He should have given it back to her, told her he was sleeping well. The potion thrummed in his grasp, drawing his attention to it and shortening his breath. He felt a flush rise on his cheeks. 

The sharp _crack_ of Apparation reverberated through the building, and Harry bit his lip, heart beating fast with desire. 

-|-

Draco checked his robes one last time before the mirror before drawing his wand. He looked down at it for a moment, then lifted it, bracing himself. He brought it down on his head, hard, and shivered slightly as the sticky sensation of a Disillusionment Charm crept down his spine. He watched himself as he vanished, and when the charm passed his knees he began to turn from side to side, lifting his arms and peering over his shoulder to check for visible spots. 

After a moment, he forgot where he was looking, what he was looking at. Good. The Charm was working properly. 

He walked over to the door to his room and stopped, peering at it in the dim light from the single candle. If it had been later, perhaps he would have had sunlight to help him see, but Potter slept little, so Draco was perforce an early riser. 

The door was locked. No one could get in but he.

Draco straightened, glanced around, and nodded to himself. Time to see Potter. 

-|-

_When he stumbles back out of the Floo for the second time in ten minutes, his stomach is churning. He shakes his hair out with a hand and glances around for Ron and Hermione._

_She is standing, hand on her hip, a few feet away, with Ron leaning over her shoulder and talking. Harry isn’t sure whether she’s listening at all or not._

-|-

It hurt her to see him like this. Every time Hermione visited Harry, she kept one hand in her pocket, pinching her leg to stop herself from crying at the sight of him. He grew more haggard by the day, his hair long enough to touch the line of his jaw and the dark circles under his eyes deepened to a rich purple and blue. And there was nothing she could do.

She planned her visits, coming when she had appointments or meetings scheduled in the office, so that she always had an excuse to leave early, get away and pretend that their lives hadn’t changed, that they still Flooed to the Ministry together, worked on the same floor, exchanged notes and opinions on cases over curry and the Wizarding Wireless. 

Sometimes, late at night when Ron snored, she sat on the edge of the bed and wiped away silent tears.

She was glad when Harry told her he could feel magic, and she left his flat with her heart racing. She headed straight back to the flat and Flooed in sick before pulling out all her books – purchased months ago and lain fallow for weeks now – and began her search again.

-|-

Harry placed the vial back in the center of the kitchen table and for the next hour circled the flat restlessly, trying not to look at the potion and failing utterly to avoid it. He kept wandering to the kitchen, his eyes inevitably caught up in the liquid’s swirling depths. The potion quickly became the sun he gravitated round.

Once, as he attempted to make eggs to distract himself, he glanced down to find that he had already picked it up, and the vial was warm from the heat of his hand. 

He was so tired. 

Horrified by his subconscious addiction, Harry snatched one of Dudley’s too-big jackets from the back of a chair and headed out onto the street. The morning sunlight had burned away the fog. Harry stopped, taking a deep breath of the still-crisp air. Several people walked by him, misting morning breath wrapping around their mouths and throats as they went, gazes fixed on the ground. 

He pulled Dudley’s jacket (more a sweatshirt, really) close around him against the morning chill. 

Harry paused at all the crossings and watched for errant cars as he walked, but otherwise he didn’t pay much attention to the city around him. He walked down Shoreditch High Street towards the City, past the Liverpool Station until his thighs and calves burned, until he felt a rumble in his stomach and the strain of walking stole over him very much like exhaustion. He walked past shops still hours away from opening, little cafes packed with coffee addicts, and restaurants bustling inside but whose doors were locked, until there was nowhere else to walk unless he wanted to turn up Thames and head for the Embankment. 

He turned towards the Old Billingsgate Market instead, weaving through pedestrians and garbage until he found the edge of the river. He crouched, leaning his head on his hands and staring at the Tower Bridge. He was hot, and could feel heat already gathering in the mid-morning air. His mind wandered, and he swayed as a limpid breeze lifted his hair.

_”Can’t you see? He’s dangerous! He’s too powerful to have magic like the rest of us! He killed You Know Who, but now what? What will he destroy next?”_

There was a hand on Harry’s shoulder, jerking him from his memory. He realised he was leaning forward, perilously close to the end of the pavement, so he fell backward. He whirled, gravel grinding under his shoes.

There was no one behind him. But in Harry’s haste, in his wild surprise, he’d flung out his hands to catch himself, and at the instant that Harry realised there was no one there (that the hand on his shoulder must have been an hallucination and he really was going mad), his fingers brushed against fabric, and he stopped.

The fabric twitched back and away, but Harry lunged forward, grasping at a nothing that felt very much like something. _Magic_ , his mind hissed, and he felt the telltale crawl up the back of his neck, the lurch somewhere lower than his stomach. 

He grabbed the person, and pulled him, turning. With a shout, the wizard (Harry could feel that he was a man under his grip) stumbled around and Harry held him there, near the edge of the pavement with the Thames moving deceptively lazy below. 

“Potter,” a half-strangled voice said, and Harry froze. 

Now aware, Harry’s eyes could just make out an outline in the air, the barest distortion like smoke that gave away a Disillusionment Charm. “Remove the charm,” he said, taking a step back and pulling the wizard with him. 

He felt the man’s breath even slightly. His fingers tightened as he reached for his wand. “Just the charm,” he reminded the wizard. 

A moment later he heard a whispered, “ _Finite Incantatum,_ ” and possibly the last person Harry had been expecting to see began bleeding into existence, from the tips of his white-blond hair downwards. 

Draco Malfoy was wearing a dark Muggle suit and coat, both well-tailored, made from rich fabrics and unexpectedly becoming. Two bright spots of pink coloured the tops of his cheeks. 

“Malfoy,” Harry said, cold all over. “You were following me.” His voice sounded very calm, unsurprised even. It was odd, since inside he felt very broken.

Malfoy blinked at him and shrugged his shoulders, but Harry’s hands refused to be dislodged from his clothing. “No, Potter, of course I wasn’t. Why would I—“

“You were!” Harry was sure, blindingly sure, that this was the truth. Malfoy had been following him. For how long? From the flat? Longer? “Why were you following me?” He voice cracked and he pushed, shoving Malfoy backwards. His grey eyes flew wide and his hands came up, just as the heel of his shoes slipped over the edge of the pavement and he began to fall. The last thing Harry saw was the white of Malfoy’s eyes and, from the corners of his own, the spikes of Tower Bridge.

Then Harry was crushed into nothingness, turned inside out, and burned alive. The Apparation ended, and Harry fell to his knees somewhere with substantially less light than the edge of the Thames, and he retched up his tea all over Malfoy’s shiny black shoes. 

Vaguely, through the pain and shock, he heard Malfoy’s outraged cry and was pleased with himself. 

-|-

Draco had been _sure_ Potter was about to commit suicide or something equally mad, or he wouldn’t have shown himself. Then Potter tossed them both over the edge of the embankment in return. 

Typical.

-|-

_There is a woman arriving in the crowd of Ministry workers. Her robes are plain and black, and her hair is dark brown, pulled into a tail at the base of her neck. From a certain angle, even with her wide eyes and sharp chin, she can be called attractive. She works her way across the entrance hall towards the fireplaces – specifically the one that Harry is standing in front of._

_Harry hasn’t noticed her yet. He will._

-|-

Draco had been following Potter for several weeks. He had been there that morning in the Ministry – he had horrible dreams about Potter’s body lying on the black floor, writhing, fingers grasping at nothing. He had heard Potter scream, and it had broken something inside of him. Draco couldn’t get Potter out of his head, couldn’t stop thinking about how he had stumbled and fallen when Potter had screamed.

He had needed to know what had happened to Potter, learn how he could have survived. He hadn’t expected to become fascinated with Potter, fixated by how he lived without magic, to begin wondering how it felt to have nothing but stillness underneath his fingertips – untainted by the slide of magic and spells that had worked their way into every inch of Draco’s life. 

So, it was much harder than he had expected to tear himself away once he’d begun to watch. 

-|-

Harry looked in the mirror, at the dark circles under his eyes and the paleness of his cheeks, and he sighed. He leant down again, placing his hands under the running water and splashing his face. 

He sipped a little of the water, just enough to cool the dryness in his throat, and quickly gargled another mouthful. It didn’t quite get rid of the bitter, sickening aftertaste left there. He patted his face dry with Dudley’s sweatshirt and exited the bathroom. He paused there and leant against the frame, staring at Malfoy. 

Malfoy’s coat was unbuttoned, spreading over the arms of the wooden chair and pooling around its spindly legs. He’d kicked his shoes off, and his white socks were stark against the black of his suit trousers. He was holding one of his shoes in his lap, scrubbing at it with a small brush. 

“Why don’t you use magic?” Harry couldn’t help but ask. 

Malfoy’s shoulders tightened and his hand slowed. When he looked up, his gaze was sharp, but not angry. That surprised Harry. 

“It doesn’t work as well,” he said. “I took most of it off with an _Evanesco_ , but the rest…” He shrugged. “This works best.” He bent again, using the brush with sharp little flicks. Harry stepped forward, but couldn’t see the stain Malfoy was working at. 

Malfoy glanced up at him, a quick look through eyelashes so pale Harry could barely see them. 

“Now that you’re here,” he said casually, “what would you like to do?”

Harry snorted and walked across the room to the door. He pulled it open and glanced up and down a narrow, dimly-lit hall. “I’m leaving,” he said and shut it with a bang behind him. He would walk back to the flat if necessary. Malfoy couldn’t have Apparated them too far; he could hear city traffic somewhere outside – the blaring of horns, laughter and shouting – so hopefully the city they were in was London. 

As Harry walked down the dim hall, lit only by the occasionally scone, Malfoy followed him out of the room. He didn’t say anything, but Harry listened to his soft steps and wondered. What did Malfoy want? Why had he brought Harry here? _Why had he been following Harry?_

At the end of the hall was a narrow set of stairs, and Harry plunged down it, trainers thudding against the wood as he hurried, body moving on autopilot in order to get away. 

Then, five steps from the bottom he froze, clutching the banister and swinging to a halt. Malfoy stopped just behind him, but didn’t touch him. Harry stared out over the smoky, darkened taproom of the Leaky Cauldron in horror. 

The blood drained from his cheeks and he felt faint. Malfoy grabbed him, one hand tight on his waist and the other on his shoulder. He leant forward, whispering into Harry’s ear, “I live at the Leaky now, Potter. The Ministry took everything from my family. I’m lucky they’ll take me in here.”

Malfoy’s words were sharp, and Harry could feel the weight of them. They cut through Harry’s shocked haze. 

“Come on,” Malfoy said, pulling Harry gently backwards. “Let’s go back to my room; I don’t think you’d like them to see you right now.” 

Slowly, Harry turned away from the witches and wizards laughing and eating below, the combined force of their magic crackling through the room. The spot on his shoulder where Malfoy had rested his hand was still warm, so Harry focused on it. He was afraid that if he didn’t, he would turn around, rush down past the tables and to the bar, just so that he could see them, and talk to them, and feel their magic and the force of their attention move on his skin. He wanted that so badly. He closed his eyes. He couldn’t though. He couldn’t give in to that craving he had for magic shivering against his skin. That would be a dangerous trap to fall into. 

Malfoy pushed open his door and walked into his room, but, with his hand on the doorframe, Harry stopped. He looked down the hall to the stairs he’d just come up. He turned and glanced at the other end of the hall. There were five more doors before it ended in a blank wall, an empty portrait the only possible exit in that direction. 

How could he get out of here? Could he call Ron or Hermione somehow? He flinched at the thought that he had just told Hermione to stay away from him that morning.

Malfoy turned to look at him, backlit by the candle inside his room, and Harry realised he’d wrapped his arms around himself. He straightened and pulled them away, staring at Malfoy’s graceful silhouette.

“Just…take me home,” he said.

“And how will I do that, Potter? I don’t know where you live. I only happened upon you this morning by chance, of course, and Apparated here because I had no other choice. You’ll have to call your friends to take you home.” He walked over to a chair and settled in it. Harry hesitantly stepped into the room again, but left the door open. 

Why was Malfoy so calm? Why wasn’t he fighting with Harry like he used to?

Though there was a window in Malfoy’s room, the curtains were drawn. The single candle threw a warm glow across his face, casting it half in shadow and half in gold, illuminating his quiet gaze. Staring into it, Harry thought that it was full of…

Pity. 

That was it. Malfoy pitied him. Harry drew himself up. 

“Take. Me. Home.” Harry said with a hiss. 

Why had Malfoy brought him here? This place was his life, apparently, his home. Why would Malfoy bring him into that? He wanted out. He couldn’t stay here.

Malfoy gazed at him for a long moment, the pity leaching from his gaze slowly, until it was very cold and he stood smoothly, slipping his feet deftly into his stiff shoes.

“Fine,” Malfoy snapped, and his hands came out of nowhere, shoving against Harry’s chest and sending him stumbling backwards. Then Malfoy was on him, so close and bending him backwards, and as Harry went dizzy from the position and sudden expectation, Malfoy’s magic came up around them and pulled them away.

Harry clung to him as they landed, to keep himself upright, and just managed _not_ to be sick again. 

-|-

It had been the only place that Draco could think to go. They’d been falling, and he’d Apparated on instinct, and ended up bring Potter to the…only place he could call home. 

If only Potter had wanted to stay – if only he’d given Draco the chance to prove that he had changed, that he was _different_. He didn’t want to hurt Potter, he wanted something else entirely. But all Potter wanted was to get away, flee back to whence he’d come, and the anger that Draco felt sweeping through him made him feel like they were back at Hogwarts again. 

Like nothing had changed. 

Draco laid his hands on Potter to Apparate them back into the center of London and his breath was sucked away. This wasn’t like when they had been boys, not at all, when Draco had been at the mercy of his anger and fear. Now Draco had the power – to grasp Potter (no, Harry), to bend him backwards, to cast any spell on him that he so chose. 

Harry’s green eyes were dull in the candlelight, but Draco saw them flash wide as Draco grasped him and Apparated them. When the spell let them go, Draco tried to shove Harry away, gain some distance, but Harry held him close.

-|-

_Harry shakes the dust off his robes and makes his way over to his best friends. He reaches into one of the pockets, pulling out an apple only slightly bruised. He offers it to Hermione and she smiles at him as she takes it._

_“Thank you!” shouts Ron over the morning din._

_The crowd shifts around them._

-|-

London was crowded and the sun was high overhead, so Harry assumed that it was nearly lunchtime. Pedestrians passed by quickly, turned faceless by the sunlight as they looked up and around them, or by the shadows they cast as they looked down, phones pressed against their ears and lips moving ceaselessly. Harry stepped away from Malfoy and took a deep breath. 

The air felt cleaner here, thin, as if the tang of ozone had been stripped from it. It was comforting to Harry. He turned back and looked at Malfoy, whose face was sharp and blank, who was wearing a Muggle suit and standing in the middle of a Muggle sidewalk as if he belonged there. The crowd parted around him, yet no one seemed to notice him. 

_It has always been like that for Malfoy_ , Harry thought.

“Go away,” he said, then turned and began to walk away. He didn’t want to see Malfoy’s face, didn’t want to see him draw his wand. 

Within the first few steps, he knew that he was going to suffer the entire walk back to the flat. The walk earlier had been too much, far too long. His trainers rubbed against his toes and the balls of his feet. His heels ached and a sharp pain ran up the back of his ankles. He winced with every step. 

A hand touched the small of his back, shocking Harry, and Malfoy stepped next to him. “Honestly,” he said, and Harry glanced down at the slim wand he held. 

He shifted away from Malfoy and said, “You don’t know where I live, remember?”

Malfoy’s mouth twisted, and he said, “I lied,” as he reached out. Harry took his hand, and his breath was snatched away with a _crack_.

-|-

It was such a simple decision for Draco to show Harry what he knew, show Harry that he had been following him, that he knew where Harry lived, how he lived, and the pain he felt. It was not so simple to tell Harry how he yearned to feel what Harry did – to try living without his magic, even for just a moment – so he shoved the thought away. 

Harry had lost his magic and everything that made him special. Draco had lost his family, his heritage, and his pride. After everything, they had become the same. Normal. 

Almost.

-|-

_Witches and wizards of all sizes and shapes mill around the trio as they push towards the lifts. It doesn’t help that everyone is heading in the same direction. Once or twice a witch will notice Harry and, with eyes wide, step aside to allow the three of them through, and so they make progress. Harry doesn’t like trading in on his fame, but he’s grateful for it in times like this._

_A few feet from the lifts, a witch catches his eyes. Her dark brown eyes fly wide and she twitches forward instead of back, a lock of brown hair falling into her face. Harry catches a glimpse of something sharp and metal in her hand._

-|-

Malfoy Apparated them into the hall in front of the flat. Harry’s grip twisted in Malfoy’s, and though Malfoy stepped back slightly, Harry held him tight as he placed his other hand over his mouth to quell the nausea. This was getting tiresome. After a moment, his stomach subsided and he reached into his jeans pocket, fumbling for the keys.

Malfoy pulled back once more, actively trying to remove his hand from Harry’s grip, so Harry looked at him. His chin was high and his fingers were white around his wand. His gaze watched Harry carefully. He was either angry or frightened. 

“You’re not leaving yet,” Harry said. “You still have to explain why you’ve been following me and _how_ you knew where I live.” As he tugged Malfoy back towards the door and snagged his keys with a finger, struggling to drag them out of his pocket, the door opened all on its own, and Harry looked up in surprise. 

Dudley’s fit frame filled the doorway, a bright carton of chocolate milk in one hand and holding the door open with the other. 

He raised the milk in salute, then looked at Malfoy. His eyebrows rose. 

He glanced at Harry and asked, “Who’s this?”

“Draco Malfoy,” Malfoy said stiffly. “Pleased to meet you.” His tone was halfway to disgust, but he tried to reach forward and shake Dudley’s hand anyway (not something Harry had been expecting, to be honest), only to be stopped by Harry’s grip. 

“Harry,” Dudley said, “What are you doing?”

“Malfoy here has to explain a few things. Now, are you going to let us in?”

Dudley blinked at him, and his mouth twisted. He stepped back and held the door wide. “Of course,” he said, tone mocking. Harry pulled Malfoy into the flat and looked away from his cousin. 

He needed to sit Malfoy down, somehow force him to talk and tell him what all of this was about. He looked around the room, through the open doorway into the kitchen, at the Dreamless Sleep, sitting in the center of the metal table.

Malfoy snatched his hand back from him, and Harry whirled. Dudley was just closing the door with a click, snapping the lock shut, and Malfoy’s wand was nowhere to be seen. He flexed his fingers, turning his hand as if Harry’s grip had hurt him. 

“I won’t leave,” he said. “Don’t worry.”

Harry scowled at Malfoy, who walked over to the kitchen table and settled into Harry’s chair. Malfoy shrugged out of his jacket, throwing it over the back of the chair. He leant forward onto his elbows and smiled at Dudley. 

Dudley settled in his own chair and leant back, Smelting’s sweatshirt stretching over his broad chest. His expression didn’t change as he said, “Well, Harry might have mentioned you, but I didn’t care about that when I was young, so I’ve obviously forgotten what he said. Did you hate him?”

Malfoy blinked and sat back, lips pursed. “Very much so,” he said, with a hint of humour in his tone. 

“So did I,” Dudley replied.

“Oh?” 

Harry was thirsty, so any questioning was going to have to wait until after he had something to drink. Keeping one eye on Malfoy, he pulled the icebox door open and looked inside, considering the contents. He reached for a bottle of water near the back and his gaze fell on a box of butter inside the door. Oh. 

He pulled back and opened the water with a cracking sound. “About the shopping…” he began, and then trailed off, not sure where to begin. 

“Hermione stopped by and dropped the butter off. Said you left it with her this morning.”

Harry nodded. “Yeah,” he’d left it with her, or forced her to leave with it. He slumped tiredly against the icebox for an instant before remembering that Malfoy was in the room with them and straightening precipitously. 

He gulped some water down and gritted his teeth against the sudden dizziness. 

“Malfoy,” he began. “How long have you been following me?”

“A while,” he said after a long pause. “I haven’t…really been following you, you know. Just sometimes, when you take walks, I walk with you.”

“Under a spell, completely silent. If that isn’t stalking, than I don’t know what is.”

Malfoy’s mouth twisted. “Look, I just…”

“What?” Harry prompted. “You just what? I can’t read minds, Malfoy, and there are only a few reasons that I can think of for why you might be following me. One,” he said, stepping forward and pressing down onto his water bottle until the plastic began to cave in, “you’re obsessed with me; for some reason you’ve decided that I need to be killed, or that I’m dangerous, or for some other mad reason.”

Harry paused for a breath and was surprised when Malfoy didn’t jump in with protestations. He launched back into his own train of thought, speaking quickly and heedlessly.

“Two, you’ve been told to follow me. Maybe you’re working for the Ministry and they want to keep track of me, and you report back at the end of every day. Or maybe it’s your father who wants me watched, out of some mistaken loyalty to a dead Dark Lord, you know, or -“

“My father is dead,” Malfoy said, cutting across Harry and causing him to snap his mouth shut. 

He swallowed. The plastic water bottle crackled under his grip. 

“He died three weeks ago in Azkaban. Would you like to know why I’m really following you?”

Harry studied Malfoy for a moment, taking the time to really look at him. Pale stubble dusted the edge of his jaw, and the wrists sticking out from the ends of his sleeves were grey. Under his eyes there were grey circles of dry skin. He looked a lot older than Harry remembered. 

Taking Harry’s silence as assent, Malfoy said, “I was there when you were attacked.”

Damn it all, why didn’t they have more than two chairs in the kitchen, because Harry needed to sit down _right now_. He swayed slightly and settled for grasping the counter and leaning back against it. Malfoy watched him, gaze sharp. 

“I heard you scream,” he said, and Harry closed his eyes. 

_They pull, they grasp the handle and rip it up and out and they take more than the knife with them as they do it, and Harry arcs up as a pain unlike anything he’s ever felt sears through him, worse than Cruciatus, worse than death, and he screams._

Harry shivered as the memory coursed through him, almost visceral. 

“As for your idea that I work for the Ministry, I do not.” Malfoy’s gaze had wandered, so that he was looking out the kitchen window at the brick wall of the building opposite. “I was in the atrium that day because it was the last day of my trial, and I had gone to hear the verdict.”

“How did they find you?” Harry asked, manners taking the place of rational thought. 

“Not guilty by reason of incompetence,” Malfoy said, and he looked at Harry. 

Harry nodded, and fell silent. 

“Oh,” Dudley suddenly said. “I should go.” He shoved back from the table and left his chair teetering for Harry to catch. “Ta, Harry!” he said, nodding to Malfoy and grabbing his sweatshirt and bag. The front door slammed as he left. Harry blinked at it, surprised out of his musings, and lowered himself into the abandoned chair. 

“Who was that?” Malfoy asked. “We were never introduced.”

“Oh.” Harry flushed and looked down. “My cousin, Dudley.”

“Merlin, Potter, you’re related?”

“Yeah.” He looked up, smiling at Malfoy’s tone. Malfoy blinked at him, then offered a small smile back. 

Malfoy, who had been following him around London, who had been there when his magic had been ripped from him. Harry’s smile faded. 

“What do you want?” he asked.

Malfoy’s smile was gone when he spoke, but his eyes glittered. “Tea would be lovely,” he said deadpan. 

Harry bit his lip and raised his eyebrows, annoyance seething within him. Malfoy was _joking_. Unbelievable. Harry couldn’t look at him without imagining hitting him, feeling the burn of Malfoy’s magic against his skin. So he stood and walked across the kitchen to the sink, filled the kettle with water, and banged it down onto the burner. He held his breath until the flame caught. 

He watched the fire move for a moment, then looked up and through the tiny window over the sink. 

“Where did you get the Dreamless?” Malfoy asked quietly, and when Harry looked, he saw that Malfoy was cradling the vial in his hand, holding it up to the light and squinting. “Was it Granger?”

Harry nodded, jaw clenched. 

“You shouldn’t take it, you know.” 

Harry blinked at him. Malfoy set the vial back down. 

“It’s dangerous,” he added. “It might interact with you abnormally, might be more of a poison than a palliative. Granger wouldn’t have known; she was never as interested in Potions as I. You shouldn’t take it at all, but if you must, only in the smallest doses.” He pushed his chair back from the table and stood, looking Harry in the eye.

Harry tore his gaze away and looked at the kettle. “I haven’t taken any,” he said, not sure why he was explaining. 

Malfoy nodded and pulled his wand out smoothly. He tapped the kettle with a soft _clink_. Inside, the water exploded into sudden, seething life, and steam began to leak slowly from the spout. 

Harry turned and rummaged through the cabinet for mugs and the tin of bags. He reached for the kettle and poured out the water, then handed the mug with the logo for Dudley’s gym on it to Malfoy, keeping the one with a cartoon of a cat with an extremely long tail for himself.

This time is was Malfoy’s gaze that skittered away. Harry took a triumphant gulp of tea and burned his tongue. He coughed, choked it down.

“You won’t take it then,” Malfoy finally said, somewhere between comment and question.

“No.”

Malfoy nodded, a sharp movement, and rested his hip against the counter. Harry looked up and down the long line of his body and then away. He bit his lips to stop his own foolishness. He couldn’t think about Malfoy that way, no matter how good it felt to be near him, near his magic. Nothing good would come of it.

Malfoy stared down into his mug, apparently watching the liquid slowly darken. Harry let him watch for a few moments, forced himself to gain some distance, then, “You have to stop following me,” he said. “It isn’t healthy.”

“For whom?”

Harry smiled sourly. “For both of us.” He reached out to take Malfoy’s untouched mug of tea. He carefully set it down in the sink. “I’m a Muggle now,” he said. 

“You think I care?”

Harry looked up, surprised. “Yeah,” he said, “I think you do.” He paused. “You should go.”

“You’re throwing me out?” Malfoy’s voice was incredulous and sour. 

“No,” Harry said. His shoulders tensed. “No, I’m sure you have someplace better to be. You can’t help me, Malfoy. Following me around is only making it worse.” He listened to Malfoy step away from the counter, away from him, and felt something inside him twist. It had been such a surprise to learn that Malfoy cared, in his own twisted way, and now Harry didn’t want to lose that.

He pivoted, looking over his shoulder, and watched Malfoy reach down for his jacket, not taking the time to put it on but tossing it over his arm. He shot Harry a burning glance. “Don’t tell me what to do, Potter,” he said, voice so sharp and vicious that Harry flinched despite himself. Then, with a sharp _crack_ , he vanished. 

Harry turned back to the sink and bent over, burying his face in his hands and tugging at his hair. 

Well. 

That was that, then. 

-|-

Hermione had her books spread over the bed, their pages fluttering in the Breeze Charm that played on her and blew in circles round the room. She knew that Ron would help her when he came home, and they would move through the research much faster. She reread paragraphs that she had already read thrice a fourth time, marked pages with a flick of her wand, and moved on to the next book. She discounted no legends or fairy tales, focusing on stories of Muggles who passed into the magical world and failed to return, who were held captive or who were changed beyond recognition, who became something of the world they stumbled into. With a smudge of ink on her lower lip and her hair frizzing out around her head, she read. 

-|-

_He has just enough time to realise that the woman is holding a knife. Then she is upon him._

-|-

He’d failed. Harry didn’t trust him – he thought that Draco was still the fool he’d been in school, believed he was incapable of helping Harry. The doubt (though Draco knew he had no right to expect otherwise) burned sourly in Draco’s stomach as he Apparated away. 

Well, this time he would prove Harry wrong. He would find a way to help Harry, show him just how much he was worth. The world felt off, strung taut and wrong to him. He would _fix_ it, all of it. 

As his feet landed on solid ground once more and he felt himself reassemble, Draco crouched in the thick grass, shaded by the trees leaning over him, and looked around. He had a plan, albeit a tenuous one. 

He stood slowly, just beyond the gates that had once been so proud and tall, but which had lately been torn apart and toppled. He didn’t have access to the other libraries (in the Ministry, in Hogwarts, of the other Dark families whose abandoned homes he could sneak into), but he knew that the answer he sought wasn’t to be found in any of them. Viscerally, he felt that this was the place he had to be – where the answer he sought would be found. 

Draco reached out and felt the magic of the wards crackle against his fingertips, sickening and still-powerful. He sighed and raised his wand, gathering his magic, and prepared to break into Malfoy Manor. 

-|-

Harry walked away from the Dreamless Sleep and told himself he didn’t care. He forced himself to stop thinking about Malfoy. It was harder than he liked. He kept his mouth shut when Dudley came back to the flat later, sweaty from the ring and asking about his guest, pulling his smelly sweatshirt over his head and leaving in it the hall on the way to the bathroom. 

He looked at himself in the bathroom - dark circles layered under his eyes, along with limp hair and gaunt cheekbones - and didn’t say a word. He walked to the bedroom and settled down, leaving a light on so that he couldn’t imagine things in the darkness, and closed his eyes. 

It took a long time to relax. He kept imagining the potion, how it would feel inside him, and he kept reliving Hermione’s visit. He thought about the thrill of Malfoy’s magic as it had moved against him, and the buzz of energy that had nearly drowned him in the Leaky. He bit his lip and twisted his hands in the sheets as a distraction, and forced himself to think about nothing. He counted cars – imagined them rushing by on the street outside - and eventually, finally, fell asleep. 

-|-

_He tries to step back, gain enough space to grasp his wand, push her away. But the crowd is tight. He twists as her hands seize on his robes like talons. He jabs his wand towards her, “_ Expelliarmus! _” and her wand flies away into the crowd, but not her knife._

_She is shouting something, face twisting as she screeches in his face. He can’t understand her._

_He sees Ron and Hermione over her shoulder, turning toward them._

-|-

The next morning, Harry rolled out of bed and stumbled into the shower. He turned the water on and stepped into it while it was still cold, still wearing his shirt and boxers, and bit down on the yelp that threatened to escape from him. 

He did not think about Malfoy.

He scrubbed at his face and reached blindly for the soap, eyes closed under the rush. He rubbed that into his hair, wincing when it got into his eyes. 

By the time the water was running hot, he’d stripped off his clothes and tossed them in a sopping heap on the floor. He grabbed a flannel and ran it over his body, slowly bending and making his way downwards, working on autopilot rather than paying attention.

His mind was wrapped in a loop of Malfoy’s grey eyes, the coloured swirl of the potion, the curl of Hermione’s hair as she turned away from him; he remembered how they had felt against him, how the magic had pulsed and tried to fill him up once more, and how empty he felt, always.

He couldn’t let these memories and sensations overwhelm him. Already, he felt caged – hemmed in by the memory of the wizard he’d been and the reality of the Muggle he’d become. He didn’t seem to fit into either world, anymore. 

He scrubbed a hand across his face. He had to do something – make a decision. Muggle or Magic.

When the water began to cool, he turned it off. His breath was heavy in the sudden silence. He pushed the water off his face and stepped out onto the tiled floor, around his sodden clothes, and over to the cloudy mirror. He looked at himself. His hair dripped into his eyes, thick strands writing dark hieroglyphs across his face. 

He looked around, snagged a towel off the top of the toilet, and snuck through the flat into the kitchen with it wrapped around his waist. Then he hurriedly tiptoed back into the bathroom and shut the door, glad to be back in the humid warmth. It was still really _cold_ , this early in the day. 

He laid the scissors he’d grabbed onto the edge of the sink with a clink and looked at his hair again. It was already beginning to curl at the ends. It hadn’t been cut in months and was annoyingly long. He couldn’t do _that_ much damage, could he?

Harry considered the scissors and then lifted them, pulling a chunk of hair away from the rest and clipping it about halfway down. The ends fell into the sink. 

He kept going. The scissors clicked away, slicing through his hair with hissing snicks and shortening it drastically, until it didn’t hang in his eyes at all. He reached up around to the back of his neck, feeling at the hair there and wincing as he clipped it, afraid that with every snick of the shear he’d be cutting skin as well. 

Finally, he leant back and ran his fingers through it. His hair felt so different, so new - like every strand was moving strangely against his scalp. He smiled at himself, but that looked awkward, so he stopped. 

Still. 

He heaved a sigh and nodded to the man in the mirror. Much better. Now for some clothes and the hardest part.

-|-

_Harry can’t look away from her eyes. They are so wide that the brown irises are ringed in white, and as she shrieks at him her lips pull taut over long teeth just barely stained yellow. Her words blur together as she brings the knife down, and it tears through his robes and sinks to the hilt in his chest._

_His legs crumple and her weight bears him to the floor. There are hands on her shoulders, pulling her back as the pain finally hits Harry and he shouts, writhes on the cold marble._

-|-

Draco woke up with his throat closed, a scream echoing Harry’s caught there. He never screamed in the grip of his nightmares, but that only made them worse. Every time he dreamed of Harry, of the knife pulling free from his flesh and dripping something much heavier and brighter than blood, he felt just as trapped as Harry had been, just as helpless. He didn’t want that pain – it terrified him. 

His hand flexed on the desk, and he realised that it was reaching out for Harry, for the warmth of his flesh and the assurance that he was alive. He groaned and sat up, carefully peeling the parchment that had stuck to his cheek away from his skin. His neck cracked as his looked around. 

Draco blinked blearily and forced his attention to the books spread in front of him. 

He couldn’t afford to be distracted.

-|-

The Dreamless was still sitting in the middle of the kitchen table when he glanced warily through the door. Harry paused and bit his lip, then walked across the room to pick it up, cradling the cold glass vial in his hand. He had slept deeply the night before, but the potion was still tempting. 

He left the flat and went to the lift. He rode it to the top floor, and walked down the hall to the door at the very end. He tried the handle and found, to his relief, that it had been left unlocked. He opened it and walked up the short, dark stairway to the second door at the top. He slipped the glass vial into the pocket of his jeans, buzzing with magic and distracting him just enough, and tugged the old padlock open. 

Heavy against his palms, the door creaked and groaned, but swung open, letting bright light pour into the stairwell. 

Harry stepped up and out, onto the rooftop, and took in a deep breath. He had been here once before, the first week that he’d been living with Dudley. His cousin had shown him around the building, and Harry had taken the first opportunity he had to head up the roof and stand on the ledge, the cold air searing his lungs, and the thrill of standing on the edge coursing through him. The door slid shut behind him. 

Harry reached into his pocket and pulled out the Dreamless. It was even more beautiful in the daylight; indigo, violet, and gold sparkled within. 

He tore his eyes away from it and strode across the graveled roof to the outer wall. It only came up to his thighs, and Harry leant forward, looking down the precipitous drop. It was not as high as he had flown during Quidditch once, but there was a certain added thrill to the height now, because if he fell, he wouldn’t have a broom underneath him or a friend waiting nearby with a handy spell. 

He smiled sadly, realising just how heavily he had grown to rely on magic. 

The vial had warmed under his touch, and the potion itself seemed more alive, seething in the glass, its subtle colours flashing brighter than usual. For an instant, Harry wondered if it knew what he was about to do. 

He lifted the vial and held it over the gap. It shone in the light, and he let it go. He leant forward, unable to stop watching until the vial grew so small that it vanished. Then it shattered with a glitter of light on the pavement below. 

The magic exploded outwards, rushing around him in a swirl that caused him to gasp and rock back on his heels, before it dissipated and was gone. 

He pulled his eyes open and stared up at the sun until he saw spots and then looked away. The world slowly swam back into focus. Only then did he exhale and unclench his fists.

Muggle, then. The decision was made.

-|-

Ron bent down and brushed Hermione’s hair from her face. He closed her books and scooped her up, before carrying her to bed. She murmured against his chest. He smiled and curled up next to her.

-|-

_They pull her back and her hand releases the knife._

_“Can’t you see? He’s dangerous! He’s too powerful to have magic like the rest of us! He killed You Know Who, but now what? What will he destroy next?”_

_Hermione falls to her knees next to him, tears shining in her eyes. She opens her mouth and gasps, wordless. Ron crouches down on the other side of Harry, pushing down on his good shoulder._

_“Breathe, Harry!” he shouts over the madwoman’s cries. “Try to breathe and stay still.”_

_Ron looks at Hermione, and she swallows, nodding. She holds her wand over Harry, and a tear slips down her cheek. The madwoman, taken somewhere Harry can’t see, falls suddenly silent._

-|-

Dim evening light fell through the ruined Manor roof onto the paper. Draco’s weary gaze caught on a phrase. His fingers moved to the page, tracing the words. High above in the rafters, owls quietly hooted. Draco smiled at the words and shoved his chair back, raising his wand and calling more tomes from the shelves.

-|-

A week later, Harry didn’t Floo to Ron and Hermione’s like he used to, but he did Floo again, Ron coming out right behind him and catching him as he stumbled across the polished floor of the Ministry, and retched, miserable at the thought that _everyone was watching_ and _this was the second time he’d thrown up in a week_. He pulled himself upright, grip tight on Ron’s arm, and wiped his mouth. He almost met the eyes of the witches and wizards around him, but his gaze skittered away at the last minute, and he ended up staring at the stubble darkening Ron’s jaw. 

Hermione came up on Harry’s other side and rested a hand on his arm. He glanced at her and she smiled at him, the corners of her eyes crinkling. Harry smiled weakly back at her. _This is it_ , he thought. _If I can just get through this trial, I won’t have to deal with magic at all anymore, and I can start my life again._

“Let’s go,” she whispered. She stepped around Harry’s sick and flicked her wand at it, muttering, and it vanished. 

Harry wasn’t sure that would be the last of his illness for the day, though. The Ministry was crowded, and the energy of all the gathered witches and wizards was making Harry’s head churn. His mouth felt disgusting and his stomach was sore, and all he wanted to do was go back to Dudley’s flat and drink some tea. 

He couldn’t, though. He had to come, to see the trial and what would happen to Vivian Preston. Her wand had already been snapped, he’d heard. But he needed to know what would happen next.

Surprisingly, Harry didn’t hate the woman. He had plenty of right to despise her – Ron had told him as much many times while he’d recovered in St Mungo’s from the stabbing. Preston had attacked him without provocation: brutally and suddenly over the heart with a knife spelled to nullify and destroy magic. The only reason Harry had lived was because he’d twisted as she had jumped upon him, causing them to fall together, her on top, the knife gripped between white-knuckled fingers.

Harry had seen the fierce, fearful desperation in her eyes as she had lain on top of him, before the terrible sucking sensation of his magic dying and the pain of the wound had overwhelmed him and he’d begun to scream. 

Harry didn’t hate Vivian Preston. He pitied her and saved his hatred for himself. He should have protected himself, fought back – he shouldn’t have let his magic be stolen from him. 

And now, pale and feeling very small, as he allowed himself to be guided through the Ministry towards the courtroom of the Wizengamot by Ron and Hermione on either side of him, he had nothing left.

The courtroom doors loomed above them, and as Ron turned to him to say something (Harry didn’t care what), he jerked backwards and away from his friends. He bent over, hands on his knees, and took a deep breath. It didn’t help. It was too much. He needed some space, some air.

“I just…I have to use the loo,” he pleaded. When he glanced up, he saw that Ron’s eyes pitied him. “Where is it?”

“Just down the hall, on the left,” Hermione said, voice very quiet like she was trying not to scare him off.

Harry sneered down at his feet, hating himself, and walked away. They followed him, he knew; he could feel them at his back and with every step he grew more and more angry, until he laid a hand on the knob of the loo door and stopped himself. He took several deep breaths and turned back to them.

“I’ll be fine,” he said, tense. “Really, I just need some space. I’ll be out in a few minutes.” He forced a smile that felt more horrific than reassuring. 

Ron nodded at him and said, “Yeah, mate, we’ll wait out here,” and turned towards Hermione. 

Grateful, Harry pushed against the door and walked inside. As the door swished shut behind him, he stopped, staring into one of the mirrors, straight into Malfoy’s grey eyes. He wasn’t crying this time. He blinked calmly at Harry, shook the water off his hands in the sink, and turned around. 

“What- “ he began, but Malfoy cut him off with a smile. 

“I’ve found something,” he said. 

-|-

Harry leant out the door, still looking extremely pale, but with a spark in his eyes. Ron tried a smile and opened his mouth, but Harry spoke first. 

“Why don’t you go on without me?” he said, and sounded more excited than Ron had heard in a long time. 

He felt Hermione tense next to him, preparing to object, and seized her arm. “All right,” he said to Harry. “Catch up with us.”

Harry smiled at him, broad and shaky, and disappeared back into the loo. 

Hermione rounded on him. “What was that about?” she demanded. 

Ron looked down at her, so stiff and worried. “One of us can stay here and watch the door. We can switch off during the trial. If Harry needs more time alone, we should let him have it; we aren’t children anymore.” He reached up and tucked a lock of hair behind her ear. “Besides, did you see his smile?”

She looked down and then at the door, and Ron could see the wistful twist to her lips. “Yeah,” she said, and Ron pulled her close.

-|-

_”Harry, Harry,” they whisper, “We have to pull the knife out. Harry.”_

_He blinks up at them, but it feels like he is blind. Who is speaking to him? He can’t see them. The pain arcs up his shoulder and across his muscles._

_“Harry,” she says, “hold my hand.”_

_He does._

_They pull the knife out._

_And something else._

-|-

“It’s actually very simple,” Malfoy said, leaning forward over his steaming cup on the café table. He’d ordered something to blend in, Harry assumed, or to prevent the waitresses from kicking them out. He certainly wasn’t drinking the coffee. Harry had ordered tea, but hadn’t touched it either – he was too strung up and nervous. 

Malfoy looked like the table was holding him up more than he was supporting himself. The stubble on his cheeks had darkened and the darkness under his eyes deepened to rich shadows. Harry couldn’t take his eyes off him. 

“Magic is spatial,” Malfoy said. “It can be weighed and measured, if gathered in great enough concentrations. Its density is low – this has been known for centuries, since the alchemists’ experiments – but it is a concrete substance, despite its evanescent qualities. I would be willing to bet that you weigh less now than before.” Malfoy’s fingers tapped against the rim of his saucer. 

“What?”

Malfoy’s mouth twisted and he wrenched his gaze away, stilling his expression with apparent effort. “Your magic…it occupied a space within you, Harry. When Preston stabbed you with that knife, it sucked the magic out of you and left a hole behind. That hole can’t be filled with anything but magic – it wants magic, will do anything to get it. Do you understand?”

Harry swallowed and dropped his gaze to the golden liquid in his cup. The steam rose up to sting the corners of his eyes, and he blinked the tears away. “Yes, I understand. I can feel the magic around me because there is something missing inside me.”

It made sense, then; he’d known there was something missing, of course, but he had thought that it was more a lack in his own thoughts than a physical absence. If he could find a way to fill this hole up again…

“You can feel it.” Malfoy sounded surprised, and when Harry looked up, he saw a smile tugging at the corners of Malfoy’s mouth. “I suspected as much. It fits with the stories, but I couldn’t be sure.” He laughed softly, looking down at his coffee, then into Harry’s eyes. Harry stared back, and a long moment passed.

“I can give you back your magic.”

Harry felt the cup strain against his suddenly vicious grip. “How?” he demanded. 

“You have to want it badly enough.”

The heat of his tea began to seep through the ceramic, searing his palms. “What.”

“Your body wants magic, Harry, and- “

“You think I _don’t want this_?” Indignation made his stare fierce. Malfoy blinked at him, then bit down on his lip and let it go, leaving it pink and chapped. 

“Of course not, I mean…” Malfoy’s voice trailed off and he looked away, then back at Harry. He couldn’t seem to keep his gaze away. “What I’m trying to say goes beyond ordinary desire. If your desperation and strength of will is great enough, then the magic will return to you. You will reclaim your magic. That’s what the lore I found said.”

“I’ve tried _wanting_ already.” Harry couldn’t find the words to express his contempt. It was ridiculous. Malfoy had to be playing some kind of twisted joke on him. As if he hadn’t wanted, been _desperate enough_ , the entirety of the past few months. 

“Look,” Malfoy said, “I know what you’re thinking. But even if you wanted it that badly, and I’m sure you did, you couldn’t have regained your magic before now because you _didn’t know you could_. You thought it was impossible. But it isn’t! Listen.”

He reached out and Harry snatched his hands away. Malfoy looked at him for a long moment. He straightened and drew his chin up.

“Listen,” he said, more quietly. “Three days from now, the Beltane fires will be lit. It will be the most powerful night of magic for at least six months. The air will be filled with it, so much so that it can be hard to breathe.” A smile ghosted across Malfoy’s face, then vanished. “If you want to get your magic back, Beltane will be your best chance. Probably your only chance. There won’t be enough magic around you otherwise.”

Harry picked up his cup and drank his tea, gulping it down in a searing rush. He finished and slapped the cup down onto the saucer, and took a deep gasping breath. He reached up and ran his hand through his hair, but it was too short to grasp, so he settled for lacing his fingers on the metal table. 

“Take me back to the Ministry,” he said. He looked up into Malfoy’s gaze, full of pity once more, and gritted his teeth. “I need to attend the trial.”

It had been foolish to leave without telling Ron or Hermione where he was going. To let Malfoy Apparate him away and have tea with him, instead of attending the trial of the woman who had tried to kill him. 

To let Malfoy get his hopes up. 

Malfoy reached into his pocket and pulled out a slim leather wallet. He counted several pounds onto the table - causing Harry to blink with surprise - and pushed his chair back, standing. He held out a hand to Harry.

Harry took it and stood. He braced himself for the violent, tearing magic of Apparation. 

Malfoy stepped close to him and dipped his head, looking straight into Harry’s eyes, very close. Harry’s breath caught. “Remember,” he said clearly. “Beltane is three days from now. You should try to reclaim your magic then.”

He gave Harry’s hand a quick squeeze, then his magic ripped them from existence and deposited them back into the Ministry loo. 

He was gone before Harry picked himself up from the floor.

-|-

_He screams._

-|-

He told them about Malfoy after the trial, while they ate take-out at Ron and Hermione’s flat and _did not_ discuss the painfully long and useless opening arguments. Everyone had read the papers, after all. Still, Harry had barely been able to look at Preston as she’d sat above them, listening, her hair unkempt and hanging forward, hiding her face. As she’d walked in, Harry had felt the stares of everyone else in the room drift to him, and he’d almost fled again. Only Ron and Hermione’s steady hands on his had held him in place.

“You can’t trust him.”

“I don’t,” Harry said, and Ron grimaced. 

“I know you don’t _trust_ him, but you can’t listen to him either. You can’t think that what he’s telling is the truth.” He paused to swallow some noodles. “At all.”

“But why can’t it be?” Harry asked, leaning back. “Why can’t what Malfoy said be true? I mean, I know it sounds mad, and I shouldn’t believe anything he says unless I can prove it with about five other sources. But -”

“Harry,” Hermione broke in. “The stories that Malfoy is telling, they’re just stories. You know I’ve done my research. Malfoy says he’s found a way to give you back your magic, god only knows why, but he hasn’t found anything I haven’t. He might believe that what he’s telling will help, but it won’t.”

Surprised, Harry looked up at her. “You mean you knew about this?” He could hear the shock in his voice, but felt it only numbly. 

“Don’t,” she began, slipping off the arm of the sofa and moving towards him. When she stooped and took his hands, her robes pooled on the floor. “Don’t think I was keeping anything from you. What Malfoy’s told you…they’re legends - stories about Muggles who wanted magic so badly that they took it, often killing wizards in the process. They’re propaganda stories, Harry, hundreds of years old. Malfoy told you shite. He’s not going to save you.”

Harry tried to wrench his hands away, but when he pulled back, her grip tightened. He tried to look away, but something about her kept pulling him back. Suddenly, he felt like crying. She leant forward and drew him into a hug, and Harry pressed his face into her hair. He felt Ron’s hand rest on his shoulder. He pushed the buzz and lure of their magic away and tried to relax, to accept their gentle, calming presence. 

“Do you want to stay with us on Beltane?” he asked. 

Harry took in a deep, shuddering breath and pushed back from Hermione. Her eyes glistened with tears, and Harry gave her a small smile. He looked up at Ron and smiled. “No, don’t worry, I’ll be fine. I just…”

“We understand, Harry, really we do.”

_No, you don’t_ , Harry thought, but bit down on the words before he could say them. He knew that they cared, but they couldn’t know how he felt. “I know,” he said. “And I’ll be fine. I didn’t really believe Malfoy…”

But no matter what he said, or how he thought, something within him believed Malfoy. Deep inside him, a seed of hope was growing. He could feel it, picking at his defences, trying to convince him that he really would get his magic again, that all would go back as it had been. 

“I will be okay. I’ll have Dudley stay in and we’ll be fine.” He smiled, and it felt stronger this time. He took a deep breath. “So tell me about work. How is everything going?”

It felt weak, but Ron and Hermione took the opportunity gratefully. They sat down and began to talk, and for a time Harry forgot about his own problems and pretended. 

-|-

Draco waited for Harry ungracefully, pacing his small room until he’d counted the steps a hundred times. He flung himself upon his bed and stared at the door. He was taut with expectation of what would come soon, of the new, simpler life that he would soon have, cleansed of the magic that had ruined his first twenty years. He twisted his fingers into the pillow.

It seemed like forever until Beltane would come. 

-|-

Ron came back to the flat with a _crack_ and Hermione asked, “How was he?”

“Fine,” Ron said. “He was quiet, but seemed all right. Better than he has been, I think.” He gave her a small smile and flexed his shoulders. 

“That’s the best we can hope for, I think,” she said, feeling helpless. She sighed and let the dishes she had been washing fall into the sink with a clatter. Ron came up behind her and put his hands on her shoulders. She pushed back into his heat. 

“He’s going to try what Malfoy said, isn’t he? Even though it’s impossible?” Ron whispered. 

“Yeah,” Hermione replied. “I think he is.”

They looked out the kitchen window together, Ron’s head resting on the crown of Hermione’s, letting the quiet drone of the city wrap around them. 

“Well, then,” Ron said. “Good luck, Harry.”

“Good luck,” Hermione whispered, and curled her fingers into his robes.

-|-

_He wakes at St Mungo’s in one of the familiar white rooms. His vision is blurred and he doesn’t know where his glasses are. He feels odd inside, unsteady, like he’s been ill for a very long time and is only just recovering._

_He rolls his head to the side and sees Hermione’s telltale hair on the sheets. She looks up at his movement. Harry squints and finds tears falling down her face and a white bandage wrapped around her hand. Her breath is harsh, almost sobbing. She lifts his hand and kisses it, looking away from him._

_“Oh, Harry,” she says, sounding devastated._

_And for the first time since he woke, fear spears through Harry’s heart._

-|-

Harry _wanted_.

He curled on his bed, feet buried in the sheets, and he tried wanting. He focused on the emptiness inside him; it consumed him from the inside, eating him up and turning him into a shell. His hands clamped tightly around his forearms, and he tried to reach outside of himself for his magic, tried to draw it back inside. 

He could feel the magic around him. Malfoy had been right - tonight it sat close to the skin, its presence stronger than he’d ever felt it. It pressed against him from all sides, but no matter how he tried to grasp it, to open himself and let it in, the magic wouldn’t return to him. It swirled around him like mist, always evanescing just as he reached out.

On the sheets beside him lay his wand, pulled out of the drawer where he’d placed it, a silent accusation of his own failure. He looked away. This was infuriatingly hard. Did he not want badly enough? Or was he going about the wanting all wrong?

He pulled his hands away from his arms and scrubbed at his face.

“Are you okay?” Dudley asked from the doorway, and Harry barely heard him. 

He was wrapped up in the sensation across his skin, the closeness of magic that would never be his. 

“Harry?”

He tilted his head in response, forcing his eyes up. “Fine,” he said, hoarse. 

Dudley nodded, looking like he didn’t believe a word of what Harry had said, and stepped back into the hall. “I’ll just…be in the kitchen, then.” And he was gone. 

Harry went back to his work, reaching out for the magic, glad that Dudley was gone, that he couldn’t see Harry’s desperation. His arms hurt where his fingers dug into them, and he bit his lip. The magic was _right there_ , wrapping around him and seeking a way in. It flared suddenly, shifting and wrapping around Harry, and he gasped. 

The magic ebbed, pulling out of the room like a tide, and Harry moved forward with it, coming to hands and knees. Then it was back. Dimly, he saw a flash of red from the hall outside his door, then heard a thud.

Slowly, Harry dragged his gaze up off the sheets and blinked. Malfoy was standing in his doorway, wearing long robes and with his wand held out in front of him. He walked in. Harry pushed himself up onto his heels and tried to steady himself, think through the flow of magic. It seemed wrapped around Malfoy, moving with him and the shift of his wand. 

Harry couldn’t take his eyes off of him. 

“Do you want to do this, then?” Malfoy asked. He stepped right up to the bed. “We’ll have the greatest chance of restoring your magic if we go to one of the powerful places, where the Beltane fires are lit. I can take you there, and then we’ll…you’ll try to get your magic back.” His gaze trailed over Harry, then snapped back up to his face. “Are you ready?”

“Yes,” Harry said and reached out. Malfoy held out a hand, and when Harry took it he pulled Harry forward, towards the edge of the bed. Harry jolted and fell forward, stumbling off the mattress with rough momentum. 

He caught himself against Malfoy’s chest and flushed. _Oh_. His magic was so strong, this close, so good. 

Malfoy’s arms came around Harry and he gripped him tight with both his body and magic as he Apparated them out of the flat. 

-|-

Harry swayed against Malfoy, dizzy with the magic surging around and through him. 

His fingers dug into Malfoy’s arms with a vise-like grip and something was digging into the soles of his bare feet. “What…” he began, glancing around blearily. Something very bright was off to Harry’s right, and he had to avert his gaze. 

“We’re at the Beltane fires near Salisbury,” Malfoy whispered, lips close to Harry’s ear. “This will be the best, the most powerful place to attempt to restore your magic. We’ll get close to the fires, where the magic is greatest, then you will draw the magic to you.”

Harry blinked up at Malfoy, his vision swimming in and out and his thoughts spinning. 

“Harry,” he said, so Harry tried to focus on him. “You can do this. Let’s go.”

He moved past Harry, keeping a tight grip on his arm and pulling him towards the bright fires, away from the shadows of the trees that Harry now saw they stood under, but Harry pulled harder. 

He caught Malfoy and tugged him back, until he stumbled, and the magic was coursing through Harry, beginning at the tips of his fingers and knotting in the center of him, over his heart, throbbing with every beat. 

It was too wonderful. He didn’t need the fires. He drew Malfoy closer. Malfoy looked down at him, eyes shadowed, and smiled.

Harry didn’t think about it, hadn’t thought about it before, but the motion felt effortless and _right_ , so he reached up and grasped Malfoy’s collar, and kissed him. Malfoy gasped and Harry watched as his eyes flew wide. He broke the kiss and laughed softly. 

Malfoy was eager and enthusiastic, his hands coming to rest on Harry’s hips, pressing his tee up and back and sliding against his skin. He opened his mouth into Harry’s kiss and pushed Harry back, shoving him against the rough bark of a tree and pinning him with his knees. 

“Yes,” he hissed.

Harry’s eyes slid closed and he smiled. 

Malfoy’s magic buzzed through him. With every swipe of his tongue and touch of skin to skin, the pulse of his magic increased. When Harry pulled back for a quick breath, Malfoy was flushed and his eyes shone. 

“Harry,” he said, voice dragging with reluctance, “we should…”

But Harry wanted more, so he pulled him back for another kiss, thinking, _Draco, his name is Draco_ , and his words vanished. When Harry pushed Draco back again, he whispered, “I am.”

Draco kissed him again and again, lowering them both until Harry’s legs were tangled in roots and earth and his head rested on the lowest curve of the tree, and Draco was pressing him down hip to hip and chest to chest, robes falling over them both. He was hot, inside and out, coursing with magical current and arousal. He felt good, so much better than he had in months, and it made him giddy. 

As he broke away from Draco, he laughed and brushed a hand across Draco’s cheek. Draco startled, eyes going wide, then pressed into his touch. Harry wrapped an arm around him and moved, shifting to the side and spilling Draco onto the grass. 

He pushed Draco’s robes off his shoulders and began unbuttoning the white shirt underneath. He shifted and let go as Draco pushed his cotton tee up and over his head. Draco’s hand wrapped around the back of his neck and pulled Harry down. 

With a muffled groan, he kissed Draco back, sucking his tongue into his own mouth, licking Draco’s teeth with his own tongue. 

He reached down to Draco’s trousers and worked the button of them loose. He pushed his hand underneath, across the soft cotton of Draco’s pants. Draco’s cock was through the fabric, and Harry’s hips hitched on their own, starving for contact. 

He opened further into the kiss. 

He couldn’t tell where his own arousal ended and the movement of the magic began. 

Draco pushed then, shoving him over. Harry fell roughly, pain coursing through him like a shock of adrenaline, and Draco exhaled sharply before pushing himself up and moving over Harry. 

Harry moaned, arching up and grasping, pulling at Draco. Draco straddled him once more and sank down, pressing their cocks together. 

Harry reached between them and shoved at his pajamas and pants, pushing them away so that his cock could spring free and press against Draco. Draco hissed and ground his hips down.

Harry pushed back, back arching and fingers fisting in the grass. Draco felt enormous against him. He twisted, hitching his hips around the sensation, half painful and half shocking bursts of pleasure. 

Draco’s magic brushed against him like second and third pairs of hands, caressing him and dipping just under his skin, driving him half-mad. Harry pushed into it, listening to Draco’s little gasps, and something tightened within him. 

It felt like a spring winding tighter, the weightless dip at the base of a Wronski Feint. The sensation surged through Harry to the tips of his fingertips; he sighed, wrinkled his nose, and came. 

Draco, leaning over Harry, shuddered, moved away from his mouth, and bit down on his shoulder. “Ah!” Harry cried softly, but the pain was minor and felt, actually, rather good. 

Draco slumped off of him onto the tangled roots, and immediately winced, shifting away. Harry grinned at the blackness of the night above, exhilaration coursing through him, and it was only then that he noticed the magic had vanished. Harry couldn’t feel it against his skin anymore. 

He turned and reached for Draco, sure that this meant they had failed, and not wanting to be silent or alone. He pulled Draco to him and pressed his lips to Draco’s shoulder, unsure for the first time in what seemed like hours. He closed his eyes. 

With a wrench and twist, they were somewhere else, leaving Harry gasping. Harry’s hands dug into Draco’s shoulders and they both jerked. He felt a hard floor underneath him and looked up to see that they were in his bedroom, just a few feet to the side of his bed and lying on the floor. 

Harry gaped at the familiar room and pushed himself up onto his elbow. 

He looked over at Draco, beyond surprised and trying to figure out why he would have Apparated them to the floor of his flat, when Draco burst out, eyes shining, “I didn’t do it! I didn’t do it!”

Harry blinked at him. 

“Harry!” He grinned, hands flexing, then dove forward suddenly, fastened his hands onto Harry’s shoulders, and shook him. “Harry! That wasn’t me; it was you!”

The idea took a moment to work itself into Harry’s mind, to become clear to him. And when it did, he realised why he couldn’t feel the magic anymore. 

The magic was _inside him_ ; it was part of him once again. Harry had regained his magic. He laughed, half sobbing, the sound bursting out of him. He pulled Draco close and kissed him, feeling for the first time the buzzing energy that leapt and surged within him, pressing outwards against his skin allowing him to do anything, absolutely anything at all. 

He pushed back and bounded to his feet. He felt good, so much better than he’d ever felt before. “Get your clothes on!” he shouted and dove for the closet. He pulled on jeans and a nicer shirt than usual, somehow managing to tuck, zip, and button without falling over. He rushed to the bathroom, splashed water on his face, and glanced in the mirror. _Ah, hell. Well, it won’t get any better._

He sighed and headed back to his bedroom, stepping over Dudley’s unconscious body in the hall with raised eyebrows, and stopped in the doorway just as Draco shrugged his robes onto his shoulders. When he turned to look at Harry, he could see that Draco’s hair was an absolute mess and his lips were swollen, cheeks flushed. 

Harry smiled at him, and Draco smiled tentatively back. Harry bounded across the room and pulled him into a painful kiss, knocking their teeth together. He laughed, and the sound echoed, and the magic within him twisted, and he Apparated them away with a loud _crack_.

In the hall, Dudley jolted back to awareness.

-|-

Harry pressed another kiss to his lips, and Draco idly wondered when he would stop doing that. But he didn’t really care. He felt stunned and amazed all at once, so much so that he wanted to move, dance and pull Harry along with him, spin until they were both dizzy. 

He felt a bright light on his face, heat tingling through his fingers, and opened his eyes. They were standing at the edge of a field, lit by an enormous bonfire. A strange sensation coursed and wheeled around him, shifting away from him whenever he reached out for it. Draco glanced about and saw a small, leaning house behind them. He turned back to Harry and mastered the urge to kiss him again. 

“Where are we?” he asked, raising a brow. 

Harry smiled at him. “The Burrow,” he said. “Ron and Hermione are here, and the Weasleys are like family. I have to tell them.”

Draco looked across the field and could just make out Weasley and Granger near the fire. Both were sitting, Granger nestled in Weasley’s lap, and their expressions were pensive. Neither they nor any of the other figures near the fire had noticed them yet. 

Harry walked away from him, towards his friends and family, and Draco pushed the soft twinge inside him away. _There is nothing to be done,_ he forced himself to think. _This is not your place._

And then Harry turned back to him, and Draco couldn’t stop himself – he walked to Harry, and Harry reached up to catch the back of his neck. His presence was intoxicating, the feel of his skin tingling against the pads of Draco’s fingers. “Thank you,” he whispered, gaze fervent. He pulled Draco into a deep, slow kiss, and Draco closed his eyes. He tried to drink Harry in, but Harry pulled back.

Draco waited a moment before opening his eyes, and when he did so, he saw that Harry was giving him a quiet, considering look. He gave Draco’s shoulder a squeeze before stepping back. 

“Wait here,” he said and ran across the field to his friends. 

Draco watched him go, then slowly settled onto the grass, legs bent under him and robes spread around him. He stared at the fire and searched for the point at which it faded into the stars, and he dug his fingers into the soft earth, feeling the slow pulse of the magic underneath him. He blinked sharp tears from his eyes. He listened to the roar and crackle of the flames.

It was done. He felt…free, he decided. It was more dizzying than he’d expected, intoxicating.

Draco glanced at Harry and the figures moving to surround him, and slowly, he smiled. 

-|-


End file.
